


this thing of ours

by basha



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, F/F, Family Feels, Getting Together, Kidnapping, M/M, Newsies as Found Family, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, lots of hand waving because idk how mobs work, this fic has been in my drafts for so long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:15:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28807185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basha/pseuds/basha
Summary: Sarah is nobody’s princess. Katherine is a damsel in distress, but she’s working on it. Davey has a complicated relationship with the concept of forgiveness. Jack just wants to keep the people he loves safe. Spot believes in the Jacobs twins, and very little else. Race believes in fate. Albert believes that sharing is caring. Elmer doesn’t know what to believe.AKA the Newsies Mob AU my brain wouldn't let go.
Relationships: David Jacobs & Sarah Jacobs & Spot Conlon, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Albert DaSilva/Elmer/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. sarah & kath

**Author's Note:**

> This folder in my google docs is titled "stupid mob au nonsense," if that tells you anything. 
> 
> Lots of love and found family feels against the blurry background of crime (and vague descriptions of violence)!

**Sarah**

Sarah Jacobs has always known that her father considers her and her brothers as nothing more than a pawn in the game of chess he calls his life. Yes, she’s a pretty pawn, maybe even a beloved one. But, like everything else, he will get what use out of her that he can. 

She’s just not expecting, at 7 years old, to be introduced to the boy she’s expected to one day call her husband. 

“But Papa,” she pipes up as they wait in the formal parlor for the Conlons to arrive. “What if I don’t want to marry him?” Her twin, David, shoots her a look, blue eyes big and worried. 

“Why wouldn’t you want to marry him, Princess?” Their father asks, entertaining her for the moment. She shoots David a look back, as if to say ‘look how reasonable Daddy and I can be.’

“What if I don’t love him?” Sarah’s been taught all her life how to know when you’ve won an argument. It also comes in handy to be able to tell when you’ve lost. Her father turns to her mother in disgust. 

“This is what happens when you spoil them with that saccharine, fairytale garbage,” he scolds. Their mother shrinks back, mumbling apologies that they all ignore. Their father redirects his attention back onto Sarah. “Love and marriage have virtually nothing to do with each other, Princess,” he says. “You’ll see that when you get older.” His expression changes just ever so slightly, but Sarah and David are well enough attuned to his shifting moods that they have to suppress twin shivers. “Don’t you let me hear a  _ word  _ about this during dinner, or there will be consequences. Is that clear?” 

David, the one most likely to bear the brunt of those consequences, stiffens slightly beside her. She grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly. 

“Of course, Papa,” she agrees meekly. Their father nods, appeased, and David squeezes her hand back three times, their silent signal that everything is okay. For now, at least. 

Sarah’s future husband turns out to be a boy just a year younger than them. His name is Sean. He has freckles on his cheeks and his wrist in a cast. The moment they lock eyes, Sarah knows she and David have found a kindred spirit. He has the same set to his shoulders, the same forced ease to his gestures. The same fire and fear in his eyes. 

“How’d you break your wrist?” She asks him quietly at dinner, as their fathers discuss business and their mothers sit silently at their sides. She doesn’t miss the way Sean’s eyes flick over in the direction of his father. 

“Tripped,” he says. Sarah nods. 

“Ouch,” she says. “David broke this nose the same way, once.” The very corner of Spot’s mouth twitches up, and Sarah knows he knows what they’re really talking about. 

“Sorry to hear that,” he says to David. “Don’t worry, though. A broke nose makes you look tough when it heals.” David touches his nose abscently and shoots Spot a bright smile. Sarah’s smile is smaller, but no less warm. 

Oh yes, she thinks, they are going to get along just fine. 

**Kath**

Katherine Plumber is the loneliest girl in New York city. 

As a child, she reads the story of Rapunzel and empathises with the protagonist. Her father thinks she’s being dramatic, but he’s also the one keeping her inside all the time. 

“It’s for your own safety,” her father says, which is exactly what the witch in a fairytale would say. Katherine crosses her arms and stares out the window and refuses to eat her dinner. She doesn’t believe that her father being the mayor really puts her in such danger. As far as she can tell, he’s just an egomaniac and a control freak. 

So Kath spends all of her time at home. Her father doesn’t let her go to school, so instead he brings in a tutor, Hannah, who teaches Kath everything he thinks she needs to know. Her father doesn’t let her play with the kids out on the street, so Kath spends most of her weekends and freetime reading and writing. 

_ Books,  _ she writes in her diary one day,  _ are my only friends.  _

“Ouch,” Darcy says. “What are Bill and I, chopped liver?” 

“That’s a stupid expression,” Kath says, looking over to her bed, where Darcy and Bill are having a thumb war. “Also, you’re not real.” Darcy startles at Kath’s words, and Bill pins his thumb. 

“She’s not wrong,” Bill says, and then he and Darcy disappear. Kath sticks her tongue out at the spot where her imaginary friends now aren’t. They’ll be back. And if they aren’t, wouldn’t that just be typical? 

**Sarah**

It’s not a requirement that they befriend Sean, but they do. Sean’s the balance the twins have always needed and have never had, the voice they need to weigh in when Davey’s being too cautious or Sarah’s being too reckless. And in return, Sarah and David show Sean the first bit of love and kindness the boy’s ever had. It’s nice. 

Their genuine friendship acts like a beacon for the other kids in their Family. They’re growing up in rough homes too; if they’re lucky, their parents are simply neglectful. In a world where they’ve only ever been taught to watch their own backs, Sarah and Sean and Davey reimagine a world where they can look out for each other. 

Most of them take on new nicknames in the company of the others, and an unofficial rule develops that you can’t choose your own, it has to be bestowed upon you. Les is the one who rechristens Sean as Spot. Sarah’s afraid Sean won’t like the constant reminder of the cigarette burns his asshole of a father leaves on his arms and torso, but Sean has a soft spot for their baby brother and a sick sense of humor. Mathew becomes Hotshot and Harry becomes York and even Davey gets called Mouth every now and then. 

When they’re 14, Tommy calls her “Princess.” 

Sean has to stop her from breaking his arm. 

**Kath**

Kath starts sneaking out of the house more and more as she gets older. Her father, consumed with his business, doesn’t notice. 

At 16 she lies and says she’s 19, and she gets a job writing for The Sun. She’s just doing small pieces, theatrical reviews and society gossip, but she enjoys it. 

Out in the world for the first time, Kath starts to get a sense of what her father was trying to protect her from. Even the theatres of the city are connected to the thriving underground, with actresses doubling as hookers or drug runners. Kath doesn’t care. 

She’d rather be scared and free than bored and safe. 

She just needs a way to make it permanent. 

**Sarah**

By 16 years old, they’ve perfected the routine. Still, Sarah doesn’t know if she’ll ever get used to seeing her best friend like this, bruised and hurt, bleeding on her bedspread. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Sarah hisses. “What the hell did he do to you this time?” Spot shrugs, and even that makes him wince. 

“Dunno, exactly,” he says. “But it hurts like a bitch.” 

“Need me to get Davey?” 

“No need,” Spot says. “I tapped on his wall on my way in.” He makes a face. “The kid mighta been in there too. My bad.” Sarah shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak, and tries not to think of how her life has come to this: her best friend/fiance sneaking into their house through secret passages so her father doesn’t know, her twin studying medical books and stocking up on first aid supplies, her baby brother hiding from his nightmares in his older brother’s bed and waking up to this shit. Speaking of: 

“Spotty?” Les asks from the doorway, voice small. Les looks tiny next to David, who’s in the middle of a growth spurt that’s turning him into some sort of giant. David has their first aid kit in one hand and Les’ hand in the other. 

“He wouldn’t let me go without him,” Davey explains sourly, nudging Les into the room and pulling the door shut behind him. “Les, go to Sarah. Jesus, Spot, lemme see that.” Sarah sits down on her window seat, pulling Les into her lap, as Davey starts patching up Spot. 

“Is Spot gonna be okay?” Les asks. He’s still young and sheltered enough to be shocked by something like this. 

“Of course he is, baby,” she says, tucking one of Les’ curls behind his ear. She notes, with a sick sort of detachment, that her hands are shaking; she can’t tell if it’s from anger or fear or both. She amuses Les with a story, the one that ends with the brother and sister pushing the evil witch into the oven, but she can tell neither of them are really paying attention, too busy listening to the grunts of pain from over on the bed. 

“Alright,” David says eventually. “That’s the best I can do. Spot, try not to move that arm too much.” 

“Gotcha,” Spot says. He looks over at her and Les. “C’mon, get over here.” Les jumps to his feet and runs to Spot’s side, slowing down as soon as he arrives and settling gingerly near Spot, so as not to hurt him. Spot pulls the kid into his side. Sarah walks over much more slowly, but she can’t help but grab Sean’s hand. David opens the bottle of whiskey, and the three teens spend a while passing it around in silence. Les demands to try a sip, spits it out onto Sarah’s sheets (oh well, the maid’s going to have to give it a deep clean anyway), and eventually slips off to sleep with his head in Spot’s lap. The sight breaks Sarah’s heart all over again, and she can’t help but squeeze Spot’s hand.

“This ain’t gonna happen forever,” she promises Spot in a voice hard as steel. “I ain’t gonna say never again, cause we’re not strong enough to do what we gotta do yet. But it’s not forever, Sean, you hear me?” 

“I hear you,” Sean says. “I hear you.” None of them even have to acknowledge that Davey’s on board with their plan, or that any of their other friends--Hotshot, York, Myron--will be right there with them. 

“We’re gonna have to be smart about this,” David muses. Spot smiles for the first time since he arrived. 

“Well fuck, Mouth, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

**Kath**

Kath meets Sarah Jacobs in the library where she does all of her research. At first they’re just swapping book recommendations, but they quickly transition into swapping spit. They kiss between the stacks, hot and filthy, and Kath’s veins sing. It’s not nice. It’s not “ladylike.” Sarah bites her neck and she comes home covered in hickeys she has to hide with concealer. 

It’s fucking incredible. 

Kath wants more. She wants to meet Sarah’s brothers and her friends. She wants to go on real dates, outside of the library. She wants her own life, far from her father. 

“We can’t,” Sarah says, pushing her away. 

“What, are you ashamed of me?” Kath asks before she can think about whether or not she wants to know the answer. 

“Ashamed?” Sarah echoes. “Of you? No, Kathy, fuck no. If anything, you should be ashamed of  _ me. _ ” She laughs humorlessly. “You should be afraid of me, really,” she mutters. 

“Why, cause you’re a mob boss’ daughter?” Kath asks, innocently. Sarah’s eyebrows shoot up in shock, and, almost as a reflex, she caps a hand over Katherine’s mouth. 

“Shut up,” Sarah hisses. 

“Sorry,” Kath says, her voice muffled by Sarah’s hand. Sarah pulls away, looking apologetic. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “We just...we don’t really like to talk about it so open like that.” 

“Then I won’t,” Kath promises. She takes Sarah’s hand, giving her a moment to think. 

“How did you even know?” Sarah asks. Kath resists the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I read the papers,” she says. “Everyone knows about Meyer Jacobs from Brooklyn. And you’re Sarah Jacobs from Brooklyn, so common sense says you’re his daughter. Which makes sense, really.” 

“How so?”

“You’re scary,” Kath tells her. Sarah looks put out, so she quickly amends her statement. “I mean, objectively. I’m not scared of you.” 

“You should be,” Sarah says, but Kath can’t take her seriously with pink blush dusting her cheeks and her hand clasped in Kath’s. 

“Is this why you didn’t want to go out in public?” Kath asks. “Now that your big secret is out, can we at least go see a movie sometime?” Sarah shakes her head, eyes dark and serious. 

“I won’t take you out until I’m sure I can keep you safe, and I’m  _ not _ sure,” Sarah says. “Not yet.” 

“But one day?” Kath asks. She realizes, to her surprise, that she’ll wait forever, as long as Sarah Jacobs tells her she has something to wait for. Sarah kisses her, surprisingly soft. 

“One day.” 

**Sarah**

When they’re 19, Sean and Sarah get married. Or, at least, they’re supposed to. 

It’s Davey’s idea to do it at the wedding, and, like most of Davey’s ideas, it’s a good one. Everyone they know, and even some people they don’t, are bound to be in attendance. After all, it’s the wedding of the children of the two most powerful men in town. It’s the perfect place to stage a coup. 

Sean disposes of his father without ceremony. Myron, York, Bart, Graves, and most of the others do the same. Sarah, on the other hand, takes her time, reveling in the fear in her father’s eyes as she stands over him, his own gun held in her unshaking hands. She feels Davey’s hand on her shoulder, warm and reassuring. 

“Princess, please,” their father pleads. For a millisecond, Sarah considers mercy. 

Then she remembers how her father has hurt her and her brothers and her mother, the people he claims to love most in the world, over and over again. How he’s done so much worse to countless other innocents. How he was willing to marry her off like she was property, just some pawn in his game.

“I am not your princess,” she growls, and when she pulls the trigger her beautiful white dress is splattered with red. 

Sarah Jacobs is not a pawn. She’s a queen.

**Kath**

Katherine waits for Sarah for weeks after the other girl disappears. She spends as much time as she possibly can in the library, so much time that she falls asleep in the stacks at least three times. She’s there when the library opens and she’s there when it closes, only leaving for work or food. For as much time as she’s spending there, she’d love to be getting some work done. But her brain just can’t focus. All she can do is read and reread certain newspaper articles, and worry. 

When Sarah finally shows up, her hair is shorter. She’s got a new, confident lift to her shoulders, and a ring on her finger. 

“Mazel tov,” Kath says, a tightness in her chest. She nods down at Sarah’s hand.

“Oh,” Sarah says with a grin. “I’m not married. It’s a gift from a different kind of life partner.” Kath can’t help but smile back. Still, after all this time waiting, she’s got some questions that need answers. 

“Good,” Kath says. “I read about your father in the paper.” Sarah shrugs. “Should I extend my condolences?” 

“Nah,” Sarah says, a slow smile spreading across her face like she’s catching on to the game Kath’s playing. “He had it comin’.” 

“Does this mean you’re gonna take over the family business?” Sarah’s smile grows. 

“Ding ding ding,” she says. “Ten points for Kathy.” 

“And does this mean you’re finally gonna take me home with you?” That, at least, seems to give Sarah a proper little thrill. Still, there’s a hesitancy to her reply. 

“Kath, are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” She asks. “We...we ain’t nice people, you know, not outside of the family. And there’s a lot of boys--and they’ll love you, don’t get me wrong--but they’re total fucking slobs, and--” It’s sort of adorable watching the normally composed Sarah Jacobs working herself up like this, but also, Kath’s mind is already made up. She kisses Sarah quiet. 

“Take me home,” she whispers, and when Sarah Jacobs actually swoops her into her arms and carries her off like a knight in shining armor, Kath knows she’s made the right choice. 


	2. david & jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David + Jack + Manhattan + Brooklyn = ?

**David**

David has always known he’s not like the other kids in his neighborhood. He’s not mean or strong or tough the way kids like them are supposed to be; the way Sarah and Sean and Hotshot and Graves are. Sarah tells him it doesn’t matter. She tells him that every player has their place, that one day she’ll be strong enough to protect him, and Les, and everyone else, that she loves him just the way he is. 

Their father, on the other hand, calls Davey his greatest disappointment. He spends years trying to force his son to “be a man.” And, when Davey inevitably doesn’t live up to his expectations, his father beats the shit out of him. 

Spot brings him alcohol, and he and Spot and Sarah sit out on the fire escape, dreaming of a kinder Brooklyn. He ends up falling asleep on Spot’s shoulder, and only wakes when he hears Spot say his name. 

“David’s too soft for his own good,” Spot’s saying.

“No he ain’t,” Sarah says. “He’s exactly as soft as we need him to be.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Sar,” Spot says. “I just worry that one day someone’s gonna take advantage of his kindness, and we won’t be able to stop it before it’s too late.”

“Aww, Spot, you love us,” Sarah teases. “But you don’t have to worry. Davey’s kindness has limits. I’ve seen it. Like I said: he’s just as soft as he needs to be.” 

**Jack**

Jack knows the risks of breaking into Medda Larkin’s theatre/brothel after dark. He knows that if the cops catch him they’ll cart him back to the refuge, the same shithole where he found Racer and Albert and Finch, the nightmare they’ve been running away from ever since he and his boys managed to escape. He knows that if Medda or her men find him, the punishment will be worse.

But Crutchie’s got pneumonia, and Medda’s got money to spare, and Jack’s not going to let some stupid disease take away his little brother. 

“If I’m not out in twenty minutes,” he tells Race in a low voice. “Then I’m not comin’ out at all, and you gotta get him outta here.” He nods to the alley behind him, where Albert, Finch, Mush, and Blink all hover anxiously over Crutchie; Crutchie’s head is lolling back on Albert’s shoulder as Finch tries to make him drink some water. “You gotta keep him safe. You hear?” He sees the tense set to Race’s shoulders, but Race still nods. He’s a good number two, and if Jack doesn’t make it, he’ll be a good leader. 

“I hear,” Race says, and that’s all Jack needs before he’s taking a running start at the wall next to them, using the cracks between the bricks to climb the building like it’s a mountain. He squeezes through the second floor window, just as he has the last couple of times. The office door is locked as always, but he’s always been a good lock pick. 

Medda Larkin herself is waiting for him inside, which means he’s a dead man. 

“So you’re the kid who's been stealing from me,” Medda says easily. She’s holding a pistol in her lap, and Jack knows better than to try to run. 

“I’m sorry,” he attempts frantically. “I’m sorry, my baby brother--” Medda holds up a hand and he jams his jaw shut. 

“You’ve got balls, kid,” she says, after a moment of silence, and Jack could keel over from the surprise. “And you’re so loyal it makes you stupid. I could use a young man like you.” Jack’s jaw drops open, which is a little embarrassing, but makes Medda smile. “You got any special talents?” Jack’s mind scrambles. 

“I’m good at paintin’,” he lands on first, cause he’s an idiot. “And I can run fast and climb good and pick locks, and I’m not too bad in a brawl neither. And nobody knows Manhattan like I do. Uh, ma’am.” Medda smiles. 

“Yes, I think I can find some work for you,” she says. 

“I’ve got some brothers like me, too,” he blurts, before he remembers to say thank you. “They’re tough kids, even Crutchie, when he ain’t sick.” Medda shrugs. 

“Whatever, kid,” she says. 

19-and-a-half minutes later, when Jack bursts out through the front door of the theatre, Race and Albert are trying to wrestle Crutchie to his feet. They stop when Jack calls, and Crutchie relaxes, leaning his weight into Mush’s side. 

“Come on on, fellas,” Jack says, reveling in his brothers’ clear shock. “I gotta place for us to sleep and someone I’d like you to meet.” 

**David**

Davey doesn’t actually get to be there for the coup. Sarah and Spot wouldn’t agree to his plan unless he agreed to take Les and all of the twins’ savings and wait outside the hall, ready to run if things went wrong. David can’t help but appreciate the practicality of it, and while he wishes he could be there to see the fear in his father’s eyes, keeping Les safe is his ultimate concern. 

“We’re gonna be late,” Les whines as Davey re-ties his tie for the fifth time, stalling. 

“Shh,” Davey says, ruffling Les’ hair. He hopes the kid can’t tell how hard his hands are shaking. 

“I’m going to head over,” his mother says. “Your father will be mad if I miss anything.” Davey takes a deep breath. Sarah left their mother’s fate in his hands. It’s another one of her annoyingly logical choices; David’s the only one between the two of them who’s ever been close to their mother in any way. Sarah’s avoided anything even remotely girly since they were little, so it’s Davey who’s been the one to help out when his mother needs extra hands in the kitchen or at the laundry. Which means that this is his call. 

If he lets her go now, Sarah will kill her. If he gives anything away, she might try and stop them. 

He should let her die. She’s always been a weak woman, willing to let Les or Davey or Sarah suffer at the hands of their father if it means his attention isn’t on her. But something inside of Davey won’t let him let it happen. He doesn’t know if it’s the memory of her cool hand on his cheek the last time he had a fever or the stories she’s told him over the years about the old country, how she’s moved to America with Davey’s father not knowing she was trading one hell for another. 

“Mama,” he pipes up. His mother stops in the doorway, pulling her shawl over her shoulder. He walks across the room to her in three big steps, pulling most of their cash out of his pocket and pushing it into her hands. “Get out of here. Go to Grand Central and get on a train and never look back. You understand?” His mother looks at him with big, brown eyes. 

“I understand,” she whispers. She kisses Davey’s cheek. “Look after them for me.” And then she’s gone. 

When Sarah and Spot return to the apartment later, dripping blood, with all of their friends in tow, Davey’s got glasses of champagne ready for everyone. 

“A toast!” He calls. “To the happy couple!” Sarah wraps her arms around him, crimson still drying on the front of her wedding dress. “Sarah, I sent Mama--”

“I don’t need to know,” Sarah says. “Whatever you did, I’m sure it was the right thing to do.” She kisses his cheek. “Now, hand me a glass.” 

**Jack**

Jack’s not expecting Medda to leave him the empire when she leaves town. 

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “All yours. You boys get the house and the theatre and the men and the money and the business.” She waves her hand airily, like it doesn’t pain her to put life’s work into someone else’s hands. “Don’t you fuck it up.”

“Where are you gonna go?” Jack asks. Medda’s been like a mother to him these past years, a strange, badass mother, and it hurts to see her leave. Another hand wave. 

“Away,” she says. “Somewhere sunny and far away from here.”

“Sante Fe?” Jack suggests. Medda shrugs. 

“Maybe.” She pats him on the cheek. “I trust you, Jack Kelly. You look after my city, now, you hear?” 

“I hear,” Jack says in a small voice. 

He and his boys move into Medda’s mansion. Jack sits at her desk in her office, trying to make sense of her papers. He gets overwhelmed fast, burying his head in his hands. 

“I think this is the info on her suppliers,” Crutchie says, and Jack jumps back in shock. He hadn’t heard anyone come in, and yet all his boys are there, sprawled across the desk and chairs and the windowsill, trying to make sense of Medda’s records. 

“Oh,” he says. “Thanks.” He takes the paper, then takes a deep breath. Then, on impulse, he pulls Crutchie into a hug. Race and Mush start whining that they want hugs too, and eventually they all squish into a big group hug in the middle of Medda’s office. 

“I love you guys,” he says. 

It’s nice to know he won’t have to run Manhattan alone. 

**David**

Davey meets Jack in a museum in Manhattan, one of the places he likes to sneak off to every now and then when he needs a break from the intensity of his family. Jack is an artist, or at least, he’s good at art. Davey watches him sketch with quick bold lines as he moves from gallery to gallery. 

“Are you stalkin’ me?” Jack demands when Davey follows him from a room of still lives to a room of Renaissance art. People don’t usually talk to Davey that way. Of everyone he talks to, he’s either a beloved family member or a threat. But Jack doesn’t know who he is. At least not yet. 

“Sorry,” he says, feigning sheepishness, not denying that charge. “Can I make it up to you somehow?” 

Jack lets Davey buy him coffee, and then Jack buys him dinner. Davey starts coming over to Manhattan more and more, just to see Jack, and before he knows it, he’s in too deep. He’s in love with Jack, he realizes with a twinge of horror. He’s handsome and imaginative and loyal and big-hearted. He lives with his brothers in a mansion he’s inherited from some old lady he charmed once, and he makes Davey feel special. 

Every time he goes to see Jack, Davey tells himself this will have to be the last time. He’s a Jacobs, goddamn it. He belongs in Brooklyn, with his family. They’re relying on him, which means he can’t get soft on them cause of some guy in Manhattan. And yet, each time he sees Jack, he finds himself unable to end one of the most beautiful things in his life. 

It takes him completely by surprise when  _ Jack _ breaks up with  _ him _ . 

**David**

Jack never planned on no one like Davey Jacobs. Davey’s smart, smart like nobody Jack’s ever known, and just plain good, good the way Jack thought only Crutch could be. He’s beautiful and clever and determined, and Jack can’t help it if he falls in love with him. 

“You can’t keep him around forever, boss,” Mush tells him, after the third time he brings Davey back to the house that Medda left him, where he lives with his boys. It’s true, but it’s not what Jack wants to hear. 

“He don’t have to know,” he protests. Jack thinks he’s been doing a pretty good job so far convincing Davey that he’s just a set-painter at the Bowery Theatre. David doesn’t have to know that he’s inherited the strongest mob in Manhattan, or that he’s been living on the wrong side of the law since the day he was born. David knows a softer Jack, a Jack he’s never let himself be around anyone else. 

“He’s bound to find out eventually,” Mush says. He’s the only one besides Race and Crutchie that feels comfortable plain-talking Jack like this, and Jack is suddenly regretting taking in Mush as his confidant as well as his muscle. Race and Crutchie like Davey too much to try to push him away, but Mush has always been better at keeping new people at a distance. Mush nudges his shoulder. “I ain’t trying to break your heart, Jacky, but you gotta be smart about this. He ain’t safe with us if he don’t know, and we can’t be sure we’ll be safe if he does.” Jack takes a deep breath. 

“Fuck you, Mush,” he says. “Why you always got to be right?” 

Davey takes the break-up talk surprisingly well. He doesn’t cry or scream or fight, just curls his shoulders in on himself and refuses to let anyone walk him even just as far as the Brooklyn Bridge. Jack knows it was the right thing to do. The only way to keep Davey safe. 

Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

**David**

Spot and Sarah let him mope for a week. They’ve known since the beginning about Davey’s beau from another borough, because they don’t keep secrets from each other, and though Davey can tell they’re secretly relieved he’s not away from them as much, he can also tell they’re genuinely upset for him. It’s touching, their clunky concern for the person who usually takes care of them. 

But when one week drags into two, Spot and Sarah stop taking the gentle route. 

“Get the fuck outta bed, Jacobs,” Spot says, pulling the covers off of Davey. “It’s time to be a person again.”

“No,” Davey groans, turning over. Spot hits him with a pillow. 

“Come on, Davey, Brooklyn needs you. We need you.” They’re the magic words. He sits up with a groan. 

“What do you need me for?” Spot pulls Davey to his feet.

“There’s been some action up in ‘hattan,” he explains. “There’s a new group that controls the territory across the bridge, and they must really be somethin’ to get the Delancey boys runnin’. Sarah and I have been sweet talkin’ them all week, and we’ve come to an arrangement. As a show of good will, we’re havin’ ‘em over for dinner.” 

“And you need me?” David asks.

“You’re good company,” Spot says. “Usually. ‘Sides, this whole pouting thing is gettin’ pathetic. You’re David goddamn Jacobs. Ain’t nobody got the right to make you feel like shit.” It’s sweet, for Spot, and Davey pulls him into a hug. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll come to dinner.” 

So Davey’s sitting at his own dining table, arguing with Sarah about which side of the plate the spoons belong on, when there’s a knock on the door. Spot waits for a second, even though he’s been pacing in front of the door for the better part of five minutes, and pulls the door open. 

Davey’s mouth drops open as Jack Kelly and Racetrack Higgins walk in, shaking hands with Spot. 

“Jacky?” He blurts. Jack’s eyes swing to his, opening impossibly wide. Then, quick as a sheriff in a Western, he pulls a gun out of his jacket. There’s an immediate flurry of movement and sound: Sarah, Spot, and Race pull out their own guns, shouting; and Davey yelps as he stands up, stumbling back. He’s suddenly grateful Sarah told Kath to take Les out for dinner. 

“Everyone put the guns down!” He shouts. “Now!” It’s a testament to how much they trust him that Sarah and Spot both lower their guns immediately. Race’s posture starts to soften too, but Jack keeps his gun pointed right at Spot’s head. 

“Don’t worry, Dave,” he says. “I’m gonna keep you safe, I promise.” 

“David,” Sarah snaps, voice tight. “How the fuck do you know this asshole?” That seems to give Jack pause for the first time. 

“Aren’t you…” his voice trails off for a second. “You’re not holding him hostage? This ain’t some sort of sick negotiation tactic?” 

“Negotiation tac--?” Spot huffs in disbelief. “Sar, I dunno if we wanna be allying ourselves with idiots like this guy.” 

“Hey!” Race shouts, though notably not to debate the insult. “What the fuck is happening?” 

“I think I can make sense of it,” Davey says, voice soft but firm, like he’s dealing with frightened children. “If everyone will just put. Their. Guns. Away.” After a moment, Jack complies, sliding his gun into his jacket. “Good.” He takes a deep breath. “Spot, Sarah, Jack is my--my friend from Manhattan. Obviously, I didn’t know about all this. I thought he was an artist.” Jack winces. “And Jack, this is my house. This is my family. I am certainly not being held hostage.” 

“Wait,” Jack says. “So you’re...you’re one of  _ those _ Jacobs?” 

“Exactly,” David says, ignoring Sarah’s little mutter of “what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack demands. 

“Why didn’t you?” David counters. It’s a fair point, and he can see the exact moment when Jack realizes he’s right. 

“You’re both idiots,” Sarah says, sounding strangely happy. 

“Look on the bright side,” Race chirps. “Now Jack and Davey can get back together! Jack’s been a mess all week.” 

“So’s David,” Spot agrees. 

“Alright,” Sarah says, “enough of this. We have business to discuss.”

“Davey,” Jack protests, voice breaking, but Davey shakes his head. Sarah’s right. Family comes first. 

“Later,” he says. 

It’s another hour and a half before they’ve come to an official agreement, an arrangement undeniably bolstered by the fact that Jack’s Kath’s friend and Davey’s...something, and by the way Spot and Race keep looking at each other. And then, finally, Jack gets Davey alone, out on the fire escape. 

“Fuck, Davey,” Jack says, before Davey can think of where to begin. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Jack sputters. 

“For breakin’ up with you and for not realizing sooner that you share a last name with the most powerful woman in town and for pointing a gun at your friend in your own living room.” Davey blinks. Those are all kinds of good reasons he ought to be mad at Jack. And yet. 

“Are you saying that cause you mean it,” he asks, “or is this your round about way of telling me you still want to be broken up?” 

“The first one,” Jack says vehemently. “You really want to get back together?” 

David answers that stupid question with a kiss.

**Jack**

Jack didn’t think he’d ever be so goddamn happy. 

It shouldn’t work, really, any of it: not him and Davey, not Brooklyn and Manhattan. They should be too set in their ways, too competitive, too used to the strict lines of “us” and “mine” verses “them” and “theirs.”

And yet.

Maybe just because they love Davey and Jack, or because it’s genuinely a good arrangement, or because they quickly come to like each other, but their two separate families very quickly blur into one. It helps that they’re all in the same “business,” because they have common ground to start on. 

But it’s more than that, too. The Manhattan family hero-worship Spot, come to Davey for medical care, and revel in the warmth and comfort of Sarah and Kath’s kitchen. (Jack’s boys can take care of themselves, but Sarah and Kath are so put together and competent that it puts the rest of them to shame.) They take a step up in discipline, in ruthlessness, and in holding their liquor. Likewise, the Brooklyn boys (and girls) learn a bit of softness from their Manhattan counterparts, a bit of playfulness, and a love of pranks. 

(The prank war is endless and merciless. Jack tries to stay out of it as much as possible, but every now and then he’ll help Kath put something gross in Race’s bed, just to hear him shout.) 

Before long, it’s like there’s no difference in their families at all. The only drawback to this is that it becomes virtually impossible to know where anyone is when they’re not on the job, as it’s equally likely that they’ll be at Medda’s mansion or the Jacobs’ ancestral home.

Jack knows that his life wouldn’t be desirable for a great many people, but he considers himself the luckiest man in the world. 

“I love you,” he gets to whisper to Davey Jacobs, the love of his life, every single morning. It doesn’t matter where they are, if they’ve spent the night at Jack’s house or Davey’s, because there will be breakfast cooking in the kitchen and a whole gaggle of family members downstairs, just waiting for them to come down. 

“I love you too,” Davey will whisper. “Five more minutes?” 

“Sure, sweetheart,” he’ll say. Their family will still be there, even if they sleep in. 

**David**

Everyone has their breaking point. David’s comes somewhere around the time he’s kidnapped. 

“What deals are happening this week?” The loud male voice repeats. “And where?” Davey shrugs, and the rope around his wrists and arms chafes slightly. He’s blindfolded, so the hand that cracks across his face is surprising, though not completely unexpected, given the rough treatment he’s been subjected to by...whoever these people are. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, hamming it up a little even as he tastes blood. “I keep trying to tell you, I don’t know anything!” 

“He doesn’t know anything, boss,” Davey hears the man mutter. 

“Bullshit,” a second voice intones, a voice Davey recognizes as one of the Delancey brothers’. “Fuck that.” There are hands, then, in his hair, pulling hard until his chin tips back. Davey hates this so much more than the ropes or the punches, hates having anyone’s hands on him this way that aren’t Jack. He hisses in a mixture of pain and displeasure; and soothes himself with the knowledge that this man has just signed his own death warrant. 

“Get your hands off of me,” he warns, The man ignores him. 

“You’re Kelly’s boy, everyone in the city knows that, which means that you know much more than you want to let on. Tell us what we want to know, or we’ll break your fingers one by one until you give in.” Davey sighs. 

“Okay, okay,” he concedes, pretending to give in. “Fine.” He starts talking, spewing out fake names and fake deals, naming random intersections where the deals are supposedly taking place, and amusing himself by making up passcodes to secret meeting places that don’t exist. Like the man said, he’s Kelly’s boy. Jack will come for him sooner rather than later, and more than likely these men will never know that all of the intel they think they’re scaring out of him is bullshit. 

When Jack and the boys do burst into the room, like a swarm of avenging angels, David laughs as the men scream in fear. He still can’t see a thing, but he can hear the people he loves kick the shit out of these random goons. Eventually he feels a hand pulling off his blindfold. 

“I love you,” he sighs. 

“Shut up, Mouth,” Spot says, though he’s smiling. “I ain’t the cowboy.” He ducks down to saw through Davey’s ropes. 

“Aw, Spottie, I love you too,” he says. He flexes his hands once his arms are free, feeling the blood returning to his aching fingers. Spot grabs the back of his neck and smacks a kiss onto his forehead. Then he pulls back to help Davey to his feet without a word. David sways, legs locking after being held still for so long, but Spot takes his weight like it’s nothing. 

“Come on, lovebird,” he grumps. “Your boy is waiting for you.” He helps Davey hobble over to the far side of the room, where Jack is busy forcing the boss to kneel as Albert ties his hands behind his back. “Kelly,” Spot grunts. “Here.” He deposits Davey into Jack’s arms, then steps back. Jack hugs David like he’s been missing for days, not hours. He presses their foreheads together and looks deep into David’s eyes. 

“He hurt you?” Jack demands, voice tight. David nods.

“He put his hands on me,” he says, and watches the man’s eyes widen with fear as Jack glares at him. He still doesn’t get that Davey’s the one to fear. 

“Want me to cut them off?” Jack offers. The man’s face crumples completely. 

“No, please,” he pleads. “Don’t, I’ll do anything. I’m sorry, I promise.” Jack frowns. Then, quick as a sheriff in a Western, he pulls his gun and shoots the man in the thigh. He collapses onto his other side, sobbing. “Please,” he says. “I-I’m like you.” 

“Oh yeah?” Jack asks. “How do you figure?” 

“The love of my life is waiting for me at home,” the man says. “He’ll be devastated if you kill me.” Jack looks at him some more. Then he hands Davey the gun. 

“Your call, precious.” Davey hesitates, if only for a moment. He thinks of how crushed he’d be if Jack was ever taken away from him, a thought he’s had a million times, always with the same level of panic. Then he thinks about how this man was willing to take him away from Jack, and from his family, from everyone he loves. 

He pulls the trigger. 

**Jack**

Even as one of the most powerful men in New York, Jack can’t always keep the people he loves from getting hurt, and he hates it. He hates it when one of his boys gets soaked, or gets his heart broken, even though both of those things are perfectly natural for guys like them. He hates when Smalls wakes the whole house screaming when she has nightmares, when Blink gets stabbed in his left side because of his bum eye, when Spot and Race and Albert and Elmer fight. 

And he hates it when Davey gets kidnapped. 

“I’m fine,” David says, later that night. He’s washed the blood from his hands and has drunk a bunch of water, has reunited with and reassured Sarah and Spot and Kath and Les, has changed into a set of Jack’s pajamas and settled down into the bed they’ve been sharing for almost half a decade. 

“No you’re not,” Jack says. He’s studied Davey Jacobs over the years, has become an expert in his anxieties and idiosyncrasies. David keeps rubbing at his wrists and won’t meet Jack’s eyes. He is not fine. “Come on, Davey, talk to me.” He slips into bed next to his lover, until their legs brush under the sheets. He draws his thumb across Davey’s cheekbone, gentle as a feather, and presses a kiss to the bruise he finds there. He wants to track down the man that hurt Davey and kill him all over again. “What do you need, baby?” Davey finally makes eye contact. 

“Kiss me?” He asks, so Jack does. Davey sits back, pulling Jack down on top of him. Jack’s surprised, but he goes for it. David kisses him frantically. Jack settles his hands lightly on David’s hips. “Harder,” Davey snaps.

“You sure?” Davey glares, and Jack mumbles an apology into the soft skin of Davey’s neck. He’s sure. Jack tightens his grip, and David relaxes.

“Pull my hair,” David instructs next. Jack hesitates again, watching in anguish as tears spring to Davey’s eyes. 

“Hey, now,” he whispers. David slams his eyes shut. 

“Please, Jacky,” he whispers. “Please.” Jack remembers with a sick feeling in his stomach that Davey’d told him the man had put his hands on him. The thought hurts his heart as much as it brings a fresh wave of anger to every part of his body, and he slips his hands into Davey’s hair, pulling a little harder than he normally would. 

Davey rewards him with a smile and a groan. His beautiful blue eyes flutter open. 

“I love you,” he says. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jack groans. “I love you too, Davey Jacobs. I love you so much.” 

**David**

Davey Jacobs knows that an important part of maintaining an empire is maintaining a monopoly. They have to be the only source of the thing people want--drugs, protection--or at least have the best version of it. So when Race starts reporting a downtick in their gambling profits, Davey knows he ought to put a stop to the bleeding. 

Davey gets some guys to get to the bottom of the situation. Apparently, the city’s new favorite dice game is being run by some Polish kid named Elmer, a real math whiz. 

“Want us to soak him?” Hotshot asks hopefully. David smiles. 

“Not yet, ‘Shot,” he says. “I wanna meet this kid first.” 

When he goes to meet the kid, Davey’s plan is to tell the kid to cut it out, or face the consequences. He means to threaten the kid, to make an example out of him. Of course, he ends up bringing him home. 

Davey can’t help it. The very first thing Davey notices about Elmer is that he has the warmest, sunniest smile he’s ever seen. The second thing he notices is that Hotshot wasn’t kidding when he called the kid a genius. As he watches the boy direct his games, his head hurts from trying to keep up with all the math. He’s got all the signs of a street rat, and yet there’s still something wholesome about him. David wants to wrap him in a comforter and make him a sandwich. 

“Hey, that’s the dice kid!” Hotshot calls when he walks into the living room with Elmer in tow, walking half a step behind him. Race’s head whips around so hard it makes Davey wince. Race jumps to his feet, and Spot and Albert follow behind him. 

“Don’t--” he warns, but Race doesn’t look angry. In fact, he’s grinning. Davey steps to the side, patting Elmer on the shoulder to try to wipe the scared look off the kid’s face. 

“This is Elmer,” he announces. “Elmer, these are the guys. And Sarah and Kath.” Kath and Sarah wave from when they’re wrapped up with each other on the couch, and Elmer hesitantly waves back. 

“Elmer,” Race purrs, getting closer, Spot over one shoulder and Albert over the other. “It is very, very nice to meet you.” 

Jack wraps his arms around Davey from behind, distracting him from the trainwreck-waiting-to-happen right in front of him. 

“You and your strays,” he says fondly, and Davey blushes and pushes Jack off. 

“Jack, please, I have a reputation to maintain.” 

**Jack**

That night, Jack can feel that David wants to talk about something, but he waits until Davey brings it up. Davey waits until they’re in bed with the lights off.

“You really don’t mind?”

“Mind what?” Jack asks, running his hands over Davey’s hip just because he can. 

“That I brought Elmer home. He just seems like a good kid, and he reminded me a little of Spotty, when we were kids, and I wasn’t thinkin’--”

“Dave,” Jack says to shut him up, because David’s cute when he’s rambling but this is not something worth getting all worked up about. “It’s all good, darlin’. Elmer seems nice, and even if he sucks, so what? It just proves that I got the guy with the biggest heart in Brooklyn.” Davey blushes and buries his face in Jack’s chest, but Jack’s not done. “You’re my family, Davey Jacobs,” he adds. “And I love our family. And if you want to add to it--ever--you know you have my support.” David smiles against his chest.

“Your family,” he mumbles, contemplatively. “I like it when you call me that.” And, damn it, Jack was waiting for a more grandiose time to do this, something big, and dramatic, and worthy of his man, he’ll explode if he doesn’t say it now. 

“Marry me,” he blurts into the darkness, and Davey jerks up so fast the top of his head almost hits Jack’s chin. He leans over, just enough to flick on the bedside light, and Jack finds himself face to face with the love of his life. 

“Did you just—” Davey sounds almost agitated. “Say that again.”

“Marry me,” he repeats, even more confident now that he can see Davey’s beautiful blue eyes. “Um...please?” 

“Jesus Christ, Kelly,” David replies, eyes glistening with tears. “Yes. Yes! Of course I’ll marry you.” And Jack pulls him down into a kiss, holding him as tight as he possibly can. 

  
  



	3. spot & race & albert & elmer

**Spot**

The Jacobs twins are the first people in Spot’s memory to show him any sort of affection. 

(He’s pretty sure his mother loved him, like properly loved him, back when she was alive, but that was a long time ago. He’s not sure if the memories he has of her picking him up out of his crib and bouncing him on her hip are real, or if he’s just imagined them up for himself.) 

Sarah and David have this weird telepathy, especially when they’re all little. Sometimes they’ll lock eyes, and then, without any more apparent communication, they’ll grab him and hug him. It’s weird. (He likes it.) 

After Sarah and Davey come a whole other group of friends, Hotshot and York and Bart and Myron. And, of course, there’s little Les. But Sarah and Davey were first, and they’ll always be the most important people in Spot’s life. 

He doesn’t need anyone else. (Or so he thinks.)

**Race**

“What kind of stupid gambler doesn’t believe in luck?” Albert asks Race a dozen times over the span of many years, always with that same adorable frown on his face. 

“The smart kind of stupid gambler,” Race’ll retort with a frown of his own. “Wait, fuck, that don’t make no sense.”

“You don’t make no sense.”

“Your mom doesn't make no sense.” And then they’ll dissolve into laughter and Race will get to put off telling Albert that he doesn’t believe in luck because he believes in something far more powerful: he believes in destiny. Albert’s his best friend, but he’s too quick to joke and too slow to take anything seriously. And there’s nothing Race takes more seriously than this. 

“Everything happens for a reason,” his Nonna told him, when he was very young, before she died of the same disease that took his parents. Race thinks, now, she was trying to prepare him for the inevitable. “What’s meant to be will always come to be.” 

So, yeah, Race believes in destiny. And it’s not just because it reminds him of some old lady he knew once. He’s seen it in his own life, over and over again. 

It’s destiny that brings him to Albert in the first place. Well, destiny and Manhattan’s shitty child support care system that lands them in the same orphanage. Race barely remembers meeting Albert, can’t imagine life without him. Al’s red hair and freckles and lanky limbs and tricky fingers are in every one of his late-childhood memories. 

As soon as they can, Race and Albert run away from the orphanage. Nobody comes looking for them, not that they were expecting anyone to care. The only person who’s ever cared about either of them is the other. They have to learn to survive on their own. Most importantly, they learn early on, they have to figure out how to make money. They come up with a system: Albert pickpockets, and Race increases their fortune by betting on the ponies. He wins when he wins and he loses when he loses, and even when Al’s miffed with him, Race knows that’s just the way things are supposed to be. 

It’s destiny that Albert gets arrested for theft and thrown into some juvenile detention house, leaving Race all alone on the streets of Manhattan. And it’s destiny that Race gets sentenced to the same exact fate, less than a month later. 

It’s destiny that the house gets overcrowded, and that Albert and Race are deemed bad enough to get sent along to the Refuge, where they meet Jack and Finch. 

“I gotta get out of here,” Jack says. “I got a little brother waitin’ for me out there.” Race shrugs. 

“I ain’t exactly itching to stick around,” he says, trying to downplay his excitement. Jack seems like the kind of guy who can make the impossible possible. “Four heads is better than one, right?” 

Race isn’t sure if it’s destiny or just Jack’s too big heart that makes him say yes. Either way, it’s something powerful. 

Jack’s little brother turns out to be a kid with a bum leg, not much younger than the rest of them. By yet another stroke of fate, he’s fallen in with two guys who happen to be Blink and Mush. It only makes sense that they should all share a meal together, all hunker down in the same alley-way to sleep. It doesn’t make sense to stick together past that. Every street rat worth their shit knows that one or two grubby orphan boys is less conspicuous than a whole gang of them. And yet…

“Well, you know what they say,” Albert says one day, “seven heads are better than one.”

“They do not say that,” Blink argues, because he’s a pedantic asshole. Albert says some smart-ass thing back, and Race sits back to watch with great joy the first of many, many arguments within his newfound family. 

Destiny strikes again when they meet Miss Medda, who, as it turns out, was looking for a bunch of miscreants like themselves to do some dirty work her men didn’t want to sully themselves with. It’s Jack that makes Medda fall in love with him, which is why Medda leaves them the house--and the goons--when she dies. 

Jack takes over for a while after that, and it’s years before destiny plays its part in their life again, but when it does, it’s a doozy. It just so happens that they take over the turf near the Brooklyn bridge, so they have to make friends with the Brooklyn gang on the other side. And it just so happens that that gang is led, in part, by the love of Jack’s life, Davey Jacobs. 

Destiny brings them a whole new gang of people to love: Sarah and Kath and Les and the rest of the Brooklyn boys. And, at the same time, destiny brings them Spot Conlon.

**Spot**

Spot’s happy when Sarah falls in love with Kath. He likes Kath. She works hard writing for the paper every day and still comes home and makes time to help some of the guys with their reading and writing before dinner. And, after she patches him up without a lick of squeamishness the first time he comes home injured and neither of the twins are around (and offers him some whiskey for the pain, which neither of the twins have ever done), Spot mentally moves her from his list of “allies” to his list of “family.”

He’s less thrilled when Davey falls in love with Jack Kelly. There are plenty of reasons Spot has not to like Jack Kelly, but the one that’s most relevant to Spot is that Jack Kelly comes with a whole family of his own. A family that’s suddenly constantly around, in Spot’s home, on his streets, and in his mind. A family that includes Race and Albert, the two worst people Spot has ever met. 

“What’s so bad about them?” Davey asks one day a few months into the gangs’ alliances as Spot and Sarah walk over with him to the Manhattan house, where they’ve been invited for dinner. Kath and Les are playing some sort of jumping-running game up ahead. 

“They make me...feel things,” Spot admits. 

“What things?” Davey asks. Spot balls his hands into fists and shrugs. What do Race and Albert make him feel? When he’s with them, talking with them or brawling with them or arguing with them about whether Jack or Davey is more annoying in the mornings, he’s happy. When they leave for the night, after a day of hanging out, he’s sad. And when they’re wrapped up in bed together, he feels...

“Feelings,” he lands on. 

“They make you feel feelings?” Sarah checks. 

“Yeah.” 

“Those dicks.”

**Albert**

Albert’s a fan of sharing. 

“You’re a fan of stealing,” Race corrects, when he sees that Albert’s taken his last cigar, or the bar of chocolate he was saving for the end of the day, or his shirt. 

But even Race knows that’s not true, because Al loves to give as much as he loves to take. He always shares food, a habit left over, perhaps, from his years in orphanages and on the streets; and he loves nothing more than to cook breakfast (the only meal he can make) for whoever happens to be in the Manhattan house in the mornings. He likes to share clothes; by which he means he likes it when the other boys--or Sarah or Kath--wear his sweaters, which, since he’s one of the tallest of the gang, always give his friends adorable, completely-inconsistent-with-their-personalities sweater paws. He’s happy to share the glory of a good steal or a clean kill with anyone who puts in the work. 

He’s even, apparently, willing to share Race with one Spot Conlon. 

This is...a new thing. 

Not his thing with Race, they’ve been doing...whatever they’re doing since they were 12.

(“What _are_ you two idiots doing?” Blink asks him, once, back during Medda’s reign, during a long stakeout. Albert blinks at him, silently willing him to shut up, but Blink’s one of his closest friends and also sort of his nemesis, so he keeps pushing. “I mean, I cannot count the number of times I’ve walked in to see one of you on the other’s lap, but then you act like you’re just bros. What’s up with that?” Albert frowns. 

“We can’t all be gross and sappy like you and Mush,” he says. Blink narrows his one eye at Albert. 

“So you are like me and Mush?” He asks. Albert throws up his arms in annoyance. 

“No, Blink! I mean, not really. I don’t think so.” He sighs deeply. “I dunno what we are.” Blink side eyes him. 

“Well maybe you should talk to him and figure it out, dude,” Blink replies, which is pretty solid advice that Al does not take.) 

So, no, the thing that’s new isn’t him and Race fooling around. It’s him and Race and _Spot_ fooling around. 

Albert doesn’t even know how it happens. It’s like one moment he and Race and Spot are brawling with some assholes who think they can challenge their crew and then the next moment they’re going back to the Manhattan house for some celebratory beers and some light wound cleaning and then they’re in the little nest-bed he and Race have been sleeping in for years, fucking. Or, well, not fucking, because there’s three of them and the logistics of it are kind of tricky, but most certainly getting each other off. 

And Albert thinks that maybe that was some sort of drunken one-night-only kind of things (even though they weren’t even that drunk, he’d only had like half a bottle of beer), but then it happens again. And again. And again. And then it’s been more than a year, and it’s still happening, and they still haven’t talked about it. And it’s cool. It’s totally cool. 

Until Albert starts to notice...things. 

Things like the weird twinge in his chest when Sarah casually mentions she and Spot were once engaged. Or how he has this strange urge to soak Henry, one of the new guys Jack or Davey brings in, when he sees how the kid looks at Race. Or how, though Albert’s been excited to go to this nightclub in Brooklyn for his birthday for months now, it’s suddenly imperative that they leave. No matter which way he looks, he sees something that makes something curdle in his stomach: Race is on his right, a huge smile on his face as he dances up close to some girl, and Spot is on his left, talking to another girl by the bar. She curls her hand possessively around Spot’s bicep, and something in Albert snaps. 

For the first time in his life, Albert realizes that he does _not_ want to share. This is a new problem, and it hits him like a punch in the gut. Albert has two ways of dealing with problems in his life, instincts still strong from his street rat years. If he can punch a problem away, he punches it. If not, he runs. He doesn’t like to beat up on girls, and he probably couldn’t take on Spot, and besides, brawling won’t really solve anything. So running it is. 

On his way out, Albert looks around for the rest of his friends, because Jack has this rule about always telling at least one person where you’re going. Jack, Davey, Kath, and Sarah are together on the dancefloor, and the four of them are having too much fun for him to bother them. Finch is nowhere to be found, and most of the Brooklyn boys have left with their girls or each other (Brooklyn boys, he’s learned, work quick). Which means that Al has to go tell Blink and Mush, the two most disgustingly in love people he knows. 

“I’m headin’ to Manhattan!” he yells at Blink, who’s canoodling with Mush in a booth closer to the front door. He’s hoping Blink will just nod or something, but instead the other boy kisses his partner on the nose and slides out of the booth, accompanying Albert outside. “You don’t gotta come with me,” he gripes. 

“I’m not,” Blink replies. “Fuck, Al, I’m not goin’ all the way cross the bridge in this cold when we could just stay at the Jacobs’. I just wanted to make sure you’s alright. The birthday boy usually don’t leave his own party early ‘less something is wrong.” Albert sighs. Why’s Blink have to know him so well? 

“I ain’t feelin’ great,” he lands on. 

“Oh yeah?” Blink pushes. “This have anything to do with Race and Spot?” Albert almost combusts. 

“How’d you even know about that?” He blurts before he can think better of it. Blink rolls his eyes. 

“I know cause you’re the most obvious, oblivious person in New York,” he says. “I dunno how they dunno, because I can read you like a fuckin’ stop sign.” Albert growls and rakes a hand through his hair. 

“Whatever,” he huffs. “I mean, I know we ain’t all soft and gooey like you guys or Kath and Sar. And I’m not even askin’ for that! But can you blame me for mindin’ when they’re practically hookin’ up with other people right in front of me?”

“Depends,” Blink says, because only he would take that question literally. “Are you guys officially together? Or even just officially exclusive?” Albert huffs some more. 

“No,” he admits, finally. 

“Do you want to be?” Blink asks. “You want to make it official wit’ them?” 

“Yes,” Albert admits, the fight draining out of him. “Of course I do. I don’t just want them to be, like, my pals who I hook up with sometimes. I want them to be mine.” Blink doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised. Instead, he fixes his gaze at something over Al’s shoulder. 

“Well, boss, how’d I do?” He asks, grinning cheekily. Albert whirls around to see Mush, framed by the light from the doorway, grinning. And, right beside him, are Race and Spot, looking stunned. Fuck. 

“You killed it, babe,” Mush says, stepping forward to wrap his arm around Blink’s shoulder. “I’m just glad I was able to convince these two idiots to get out here in time.” 

“You told us there was a birthday emergency,” Race argues weakly, sounding strangled. Mush shrugs. 

“There was,” he says, and he seems like he has more to say, but suddenly Spot is moving, dragging Race behind him as he makes his way to Albert.

“Mush, Blink, get the fuck outta here or I’m gonna bash your brains in,” Spot says. “Me and Tony and Albert need to talk.” Blink smirks. 

“Sure thing,” he says. “Come on, babe. Happy birthday, Albert.” 

“It’s been half a year,” Spot growls, stalking forward, still holding onto Race. He grabs Albert’s bicep. “A whole fuckin’ six months of me tryin’ not to catch feelings cause you two wanna play it cool, and you just go and say that shit to fuckin’ Blink?” Albert swallows. 

“You never asked,” he squeaks. Spot rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful. 

“I never asked,” Spot says, glancing over at Race, whose wrist is still clutched in his other hand. “Can you believe that shit, Racer? No, dumb question, of course you can, cause you two are cut from the same stupid cloth.” Race should probably be offended, but he’s too busy being the happiest he’s ever been. Spot’s still ranting. “I can’t believe I gotta go tell Davey he was right. You know how fuckin’ much it sucks to tell Davey Jacobs he was right?” 

“Wait a second,” Race interrupts. “Spot, are you sayin’--?”

“Yeah, dummy,” Spot says. “I’m sayin’. Are you?”

“Yeah,” Race scrambles to say. “Yeah, fuck yeah I am. Fuck, Al, how long--?”

“Forever,” Albert admits. “What’s this mean?” Spot rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. He interlocks his fingers with Race’s, and Race steps even closer into their little circle, closing it by hooking his finger through one of Albert’s belt loops. 

“You wanna say it or should I?” Spot asks Race. 

“I’ll say it,” Race says. “Albert, we want what you want. We want to be yours.”

**Spot**

The sex is even better when Spot and Race and Albert officially get together. 

(“Mine,” Albert growls, biting at Spot’s neck, pushing him further down onto Race’s lap. “Mine, mine, mine.”)

Actually, everything in Spot’s life is better when he and Race and Albert officially get together. He suddenly gets it now, the gross coupley stuff he’s been making fun of Sarah and Kath for doing for so many years. (He even starts using pet names, which is mortifying.) 

Life also gets a whole hell of a lot scarier. It doesn’t take long until his “feelings” evolve into fully fledged love. And, in a world like theirs, love comes with consequences. They’re dangerous men, and they live dangerous lives. Most of the other people he truly loves either stay out of sticky situations, like Davey and Kath and Les, or seem almost invincible, like Sarah and Hotshot. But Race and Albert are fearless idiots who love to be at the center of the action, and Spot finds himself waking up in the middle of the night just to check that they’re both still there, still safe, still his. 

It’s exhausting, especially as he starts to form familial bonds with the other boys from Manhattan (Crutchie, first, and then Finch and Blink and Mush and even Jack) and then with the strays Davey insists on bringing home. 

Spot decides he’s done. He’s got enough people to love. 

And then Davey brings home Elmer, and Spot’s whole world implodes. 

**Elmer**

Until he’s 13 years old, Elmer believes in his father. 

Unlike most of the other boys at the orphanage he grows up in, Elmer’s got memories of his parents; Elmer remembers his mama, a small, kind woman who didn’t speak English, and his father, an often absent man with a perpetual frown. He remembers that his mama died. And he remembers his father handing him over to a nun, slipping an envelope into his pocket. Elmer still has that letter years and years later, the letter from his father that tells him to stay put and be a good boy while he goes back to Poland to bring Elmer’s older siblings over to America. 

So Elmer stays put and is a good boy for seven whole years, ignoring the mockery from his peers, and, eventually, his faith pays off. His father shows up to take him home. 

As he quickly finds out, he and his siblings are only allowed in the house if they earn their keep. At first, Elmer thinks this was a suggestion, maybe, or a joke, or something. Surely, it can’t apply to him. After all, he’s 13 years old! He has to go to school, and besides, he has 8 older siblings all contributing to the household’s funds. His first two times he comes back to his new house after attending his new school without any money, his father lets it slide. The third time, his father locks him out. 

“You can’t be serious,” he shouts at the locked door. “He can’t be serious, can he?” He asks his siblings as they return home, one by one, their daily contribution in their hands. “Come on, you guys, you gotta let me in.” Most of the others push him off with a muttered apology or a string of Polish curses, but his oldest sister, Izabella, takes pity on him. 

“It’s just one night, baby brother,” she says. “Don’t worry, it’s not as long as it seems.” She pulls an apple from her purse and hands it to him. “Here. Dinner.” And then she’s gone too. 

Elmer spends a long, sad night on the stoop outside of his father’s house. His faith in his father is dead. He needs something new to believe in. 

He decides to believe in math. Math is all he needs to run his dice games, which is how he makes money, which is how he gets to stay in his home. At 15, Elmer gets kicked out of school for gambling and dedicates himself to his dice games. At 16, Elmer’s father kicks him out of the house for standing up for Izabella and he and Izabella move into a tiny tenement apartment together. At 17, Elmer is Izabella’s witness as she marries some guy named Mike. At 17 and a half, Elmer gets kicked out of Mike’s house for standing between his pregnant sister and her husband when the bastard comes home drunk. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he pleads with Izabella the next day. “Come on, we can’t stay with Mike.” Izabella pushes him away. 

“Mike is my husband,” she says. “This is my family now. You have to leave, Elmer.” 

“But--” 

“Go.” 

And suddenly, Elmer has no home, no family, nothing to believe in but the cold, hard, reliable nature of math. He needs to fend for himself, now. He sets up bigger and bigger games with more and more people. As his venture grows, he learns more about the people he’s taking business away from. Sure, they sound scary. But Elmert’s always had a knack for calculating risk, and if he wants to stay alive, he has to keep at it. 

When he meets David Jacobs, he thinks maybe this is the end of him. He’s part of the cross Brooklyn-Manhattan gang that practically runs the city’s organized underground. Elmer’s making money on his turf, which means Elmer’s in trouble.

“You’re not in trouble,” David Jacobs says, awkwardly charming. “I want you to come join us.” Elmer can’t believe him. When he shakes David’s hand and follows him to his home, he’s genuinely expecting that he’s letting this nice Jewish boy lead him to his actual death. 

So when David brings him to a weirdly big house in Manhattan, introduces him to a whole crop of lovable misfit looking boys, finds him a new pair of clothes, and shows him to his own room (a whole room with a bed and everything!), Elmer thinks maybe he died in his sleep last night, and this is heaven. 

“New kid gets the tub first,” Spot Conlon says, handing him a towel and ignoring the whining from the tall kid named after a bird. “Shut up, Finch. Elmer, use up all the hot water you need.” He pats his shoulder awkwardly. “Welcome to the family, new kid.”

It will be months before Elmer’s ready to believe that these people really want him to be part of the family. It’ll take longer before he realizes just how much they care about him, and how steadily he loves them back. Still, he smiles at Spot as warmly as possible, accepting all the kindness he can get. 

“Thanks,” he says softly.   
  


**Spot**

“I can’t fucking deal with this,” Spot repeats for what feels like the millionth time. “I fucking can’t.” 

“I know,” Albert whines. “It’s the goddamn dimples. He smiled at me this morning and I nearly cried.” 

“You guys don’t have to work with him all day, every day,” Race says, upping the melodrama. He’s sprawled across Spot and Albert’s laps, head buried in his hands. “I watched him talk to a cat the other day. In Polish. While he held it in his arms.” Spot groaned, knocking his head back against the wall. 

“That’s unfairly cute,” he groans. 

“I’d die for him,” Albert says with absolute certainty. 

“I’d kill for him,” Race says just as calmly. 

“Obviously,” Spot says. “We can’t go on like this any longer. We gotta tell him.” Albert and Race look at him gravely, both too afraid to voice the thought in all of their minds. 

“What if he doesn’t like us back?” Albert finally asks. “What if we scare him off?” Spot wants to scream, but he can’t deny it’s a very, very fair question. 

“I can’t fucking deal with this.” 

**Elmer**

Elmer loves his new life. If anything, that’s an understatement. There are no words for how much better his new life is than his old life. He’s never had a real family before, and now he has a huge one; these are people who would die for him, kill for him, who learn his favorites (food and music and even what couch he prefers) and take care of him when he’s sick. 

He loves his new brothers and sisters, loves Davey and Jack and Kath and Sarah and Les and Mush and Blink and Finch and Hotshot and York...and so on. 

He also loves Albert, Spot, and Race, but he feels odd listing them with the others. It’s different. They’re different. Spot is strong and soft in equal measure, Race is open and hilarious, Albert is spontaneous and thoughtful. He’s never met such beautiful, passionate, protective people before. He’s also never seen a relationship with more than two people. He wouldn’t have imagined it working, but it so does, at least with these boys. The way they love each other makes him enormously happy and impossibly sad all at the same time. 

Happy because they’re wonderful together, because they make each other happy and they all deserve to be so happy. Sad because, outside of the daydreams he can’t stop himself from having, he can’t fathom that they’d ever return his affection. 

**Albert**

Albert knows that Race believes that Elmer is destined to join his, Albert, and Spot’s relationship. He’s just not sure Elmer’s aware of that fact yet, and he’s getting sick of waiting. 

“What’s meant to be will always find a way to be,” Race keeps saying. “He’ll come to us.” 

“I don’t know how much longer I can wait,” Spot sighs, voicing the exact thought on Albert’s mind. 

“I know,” Race agrees. “But we can’t rush him. Remember: what’s meant to be will always find a way to be.” His boys both frown, but they still nod in agreement. He’s wary of them all, understandably so, given the hints he’s dropped about his family. The three of them may have had fucked up childhoods, but at least they didn’t have to go through them alone. They can wait. Elmer’s worth waiting for. 

And, in the meantime, they can still be his friends. He’s living with them, so they get to see him and breakfast and dinner, and sometimes they can even convince him to watch a movie with them after dinner. When they find out he’s never officially learned how, they spend their weekends teaching him how to fight. Race shows him how to win a round of fisticuffs, Albert shows him how to use a knife, and Spot shows him how to fire a gun. 

“I don’t know,” Elmer says, staring at the gun in his hands like it’s going to bite him. “I mean, it’s not like I walk around gettin’ into fights.”

“Course not,” Albert agrees instantly. “That’s our job. Anyone bothers you, Elm, you come find us.” Elmer rewards his gallantry with a sunny smile, and Albert tries not to melt too obviously. 

“He’s not wrong,” Spot butts in, suddenly serious. “But you should still learn how to protect yourself. This world is dangerous. You gotta know how to use one of these, just in case. Everyone in the family knows.”

“Kath?” Elmer asks. 

“Taught her myself,” Spot brags. 

“Les?” 

“Of course!” 

“Buttons?” 

“Hey!” Albert laughs as he figures out Elmer’s game. “Quit tryin’ to distract us!” 

“C’mere,” Spot says, and Albert tries not to be jealous as Spot fits himself behind Elmer, helping him adjust his stance. Spot starts talking about all kinds of technical stuff that Albert never learned, so he tunes out, just enjoying the view. Elmer’s first shot goes wide, but he tries again, leaning back into Spot’s grip. 

Albert pulls one of Race’s arms around his shoulders and leans into him. 

“It just feels right, doesn’t it?” He murmurs into Race’s temple. 

“What’s meant to be will be,” Race replies, infuriatingly calm. “Sooner or later, it’s gonna happen. We just can’t predict how.” 

**Race**

“I could have predicted it,” Albert says, grumpily, the next day, though he’s got Elmer on his lap, so even his annoyance is tinged with happiness. “You were a drunk mess and did exactly what you said you wouldn’t do. That happens, like, once a week.”

“I could have predicted it,” Albert says, grumpily, the next day, though he’s got Elmer on his lap, so even his annoyance is tinged with happiness. “You were a drunk mess and did exactly what you said you wouldn’t do. That happens, like, once a week.”

Albert’s description of the event, though not particularly flattering, is not inaccurate. What happens is this: Jack decides that for his and Davey’s anniversary this year, instead of going on a date or something like a normal person, they’re going to throw a big party at the Manhattan mansion. Race, frankly, can’t believe that David’s game for it at all, but Davey actually gets really into it, and when Jack and David do anything together, it’s bound to be spectacular. 

The party involves all their closest friends from both boroughs. There’s alcohol and harder stuff, music and dancing, and, because Davey was involved in the planning, an incredible spread of treats and soda to help keep people’s energy up. Race spends the night drinking and dancing and talking with Spot and Albert and Elmer. He can’t remember the last time he was having this much fun. At some point Spot drags them off the dance floor and into the living room so they can all get a breather. Race finds himself sprawled with Elmer on one of the couches, and he’s not even meaning to say what he does until he’s saying it. 

“Elm?” He asks, running his hand through Elmer’s hair. “Elm, do you believe in soulmates?” 

“Racer--” Spot warns, but then Elmer’s nodding. 

“Good!” Race says. “Cause I think you’re our soulmates. I mean, that we’re all soulmates together. Um. Wait. Language is confusing.” He’s so wrapped up in his own musings that he doesn’t even register the way Elmer goes stiff as a board underneath him or the way Elmer’s face drops. He only notices something is wrong when Elmer is shoving his back and scrambling off of the couch. 

“Don’t say that,” Elmer says. “That’s not fair.” 

“Wha’s wrong?” Race asks, sitting up. Albert and Spot both stand up, reaching for Elmer, and he steps back. 

“I get it, okay, I’m a pathetic kid with a crush, you don’t have to do this to me.” Elmer says. Realization dawns on Race, Spot, and Albert at the same time. 

“Elm--” 

“No, it’s not like that--” 

“You gotta believe--” Elmer blinks at all of them. Then he throws himself into the arms of whoever is nearest. Albert’s arms come to wrap around him instinctively. 

“You mean it?” Elmer demands, wiggling until he’s looking at Race. “You really meant that? And you all feel the same way?” They all stumble over themselves to reassure him that yes, they really, really do, and then Elmer’s kissing each of them in turn, happy tears running down his cheeks. 

Spot won’t let them fuck that night, even though Elmer clearly wants it as much as they all do. 

“We’re drunk,” Spot says. “Kath’d kill us if she found out we defiled Elmer when he was in a state of intoxication. She’s, like, obsessed with the kid.” Race kisses whatever part of Elmer is closest, which happens to be his ear. 

“Can you blame her?” He asks, dreamily. 

So they don’t have sex that night, but they do fall alseep together in a puppy pile in the bed Race and Albert and Spot share, and that’s just as good. Waking up the next morning to an Elmer who still feels the same way about them is even better, though they’re all so hungover they can’t have sex then, either. 

_Whatever_ , Race thinks, holding Elmer’s hand while arguing with Albert, Spot’s head pillowed in his lap. They’ll have plenty of time for that later. 

What’s meant to be will always come to be. 

**Elmer**

It takes some getting used to.

Elmer’s been afraid his whole life. Until now, he thought he was an expert in dealing with it. He’d taught himself a long time ago how to detach his body and his brain, to close his eyes and wait for wherever terrible thing that was happening to him to be over. 

But this is a new kind of fear, the fear that sits, ice cold, in his chest as he waits for his three mobster boyfriends to get back from a job that was supposed to be over hours ago. 

He’s not afraid for himself. He’s part of a family, now, and he knows they’ll take care of him. Somehow, this fear is almost worse. He’s afraid for the boys he loves. 

He sits curled in on himself on the couch in the living room, trying to focus on the breathing exercises Davey taught him and contemplating getting up to call Sarah and ask if she knows what’s going on. He finds himself unable to do either, unable to do anything but picture all three of his boys with bullets in their brains. Or worse. Tears spring to his eyes and he tries to hold them in, rocking back and forth slightly, an old self-soothing technique. 

Finally (thank god!) Elmer hears the front door slam open. He runs towards it, almost knocking into Spot as he enters. Spot grabs him, to keep him upright, and Elmer notes with terror that Spot’s absolutely drenched in blood. 

“Oh, god, Sean!” He starts patting at Spot anxiously, trying to find the wound. “Where’s it coming from?” Spot grabs his hands. 

“Hey, sunshine, I’m okay. I’m not hurt, baby. It’s not my blood.” Elmer sinks into Spot’s arms, then pulls back in alarm. 

“Where are Tony and Alby?” 

“They’re coming, baby, Race just needs a little help.” He must see the fear flash across Elmer’s face again, because he runs a thumb over Elmer’s cheekbone, giving him an accidental crimson stripe. “Sorry, sunshine. Race’s alright, I promise. We already took him to Davey, and David got him all patched up. He’s fine, he’s just an idiot.” Elmer’s lip quivers before he can help it. “Hey--”

“Honey, we’re home!” Race shouts as he and Albert enter together, Albert holding what looks like at least half of Race’s weight. His gaze alights on Elmer and he smiles loopily before starting to sing. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” 

“He’s all hopped up on pain meds,” Albert explains. He narrows his eyes at Elmer. “Fuck, Spotty, you got blood on our babydoll. Come on, let’s go upstairs. This idiot needs to sit down, and you both need to get clean.” Spot grins, like a shark, like nothing is wrong. 

“I’ll go run a bath,” he says, cheerfully, before bounding up the stairs. 

“Elm, honey, a little help?” Albert asks, and Elmer tries to hide how his hands are shaking as he comes around to Race’s side and takes a bit of his weight as they slowly follow Spot. Race keeps singing, but there’s slight cracks in his voice when he moves too much and pulls at his stitches. Finally, they make it up to the master bathroom off of the master bedroom, the main feature of which is the ridiculously large tub. Spot’s already got it mostly full of water and is sitting in it, having scrubbed off most of the blood on his hands in the sink. He’s also arranged a little nest of pillows by the side of it for Race, which Elmer and Albert deposit him into. 

“I wanna go in the bath,” Race whines, as Elmer does his best to get him comfortable while Spot and Albert undress. 

“No,” Albert says, sternly. “No bath for you. Davey says you can’t soak your stitches, remember?” Race gasps. 

“Does this mean I don’t have to shower until I’m better?” 

“No,” Albert and Spot answer in unison. Albert laughs as he climbs in, kissing Spot softly. Race whines and reaches for Spot’s hand, which Spot gladly gives. Only Elmer stands outside of their little circle. 

“Come join us, sunshine,” Spot coaxes, and Elmer moves robotically, shedding his clothing and climbing in. They’ve fit all four of them in the tub before, but suddenly it feels too small, and he sits as far away from the other boys as he can manage, pulling his knees up into his chest. “Come here, doll, lemme get your cheek,” Spot says, and it’s only when Elmer reluctantly leans forward can the boys see the tears in his eyes. 

“Why’s Elm cryin’?” Race asks, sounding worried, and that’s what really sets him off. He starts sobbing in earnest, curling back in on himself. 

“Oh, babydoll,” Albert breathes. “Can we touch you, love?” The very fact that he’s asked makes Elmer cry harder, and when he nods, Spot and Albert move so fast that water sloshes out of the tub. Spot and Albert pull him close, making as much skin-to-skin contact as possible, and Race reaches over to grab at Elmer’s hand. “Talk to us, angel.”

“I’m sorry,” Elmer gasps. “You weren’t home and I was so fucking scared and then you come home hurt and covered with blood and acting like nothing’s wrong and I can’t--” He takes a shuddering breath. “I can’t just shake it off and relax. I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t need to apologize,” Race says, as lucidly as possible, only mispronouncing the word a little. 

“The dummy is right,” Spot says, firmly. “We’re real sorry we worried you, sunshine, and we’ll try not to do it again. But you really don’t have to worry about us, okay?”

“Besides,” Albert cuts in. “It’s not us you have to be scared for, it’s the fuckers who try to get in our way.” Spot nods, pulling Elmer even closer. 

“There ain’t nothing we wouldn’t do to get back home to you,” Spot says. “Nothing.” 

“We _love_ you,” Race singsongs, and Elmer sniffles, letting out a little giggle. 

“I love you too,” he says, leaning over to kiss Race. Spot and Albert pull him back to wipe the blood off of his face, then for kisses of their own. 

That night, Elmer lies in the middle of a puppy pile, warm and happy and safe, and he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his family isn’t going anywhere. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter is Javid!


End file.
